


Loose Ends

by irisbleufic, procrastinatingbookworm



Series: Stay Put [3]
Category: Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Angels, Angels vs. Demons, Archangels, Awkward Tension, Awkwardness, Banter, Breakfast, Conflict Resolution, Demons, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Established Relationship, Exhaustion, F/M, Fallen Angels, Fluff, Forgiveness, Friends to Lovers, Friendship, Friendship/Love, Hotels, Humor, Hurt/Comfort, London, M/M, Multi, New Relationship, Other, POV Outsider, Post-Apocalypse, Reconciliation, Resolution, Sexual Humor, Teasing, The Ritz, Trust, Trust Issues
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-11-17
Updated: 2018-11-17
Packaged: 2019-08-25 00:45:18
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,530
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16651072
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/irisbleufic/pseuds/irisbleufic, https://archiveofourown.org/users/procrastinatingbookworm/pseuds/procrastinatingbookworm
Summary: The Last Part of an Epilogue to Certain Events occurring in theGroundhog DayAU no one asked for, in strict accordancewith both Authorial Compulsion andAnon Curiosity





	Loose Ends

It had been seven days by Uriel’s count. It was Saturday again, but not _Saturday_ again.

This was a different Saturday, thank _someone_. Adam, maybe. But mostly Crowley.

Fidgeting with the hem of her t-shirt, Uriel rang the doorbell of Crowley’s flat, hearing it trill from inside. She waited, bit her lip, and rang again.

Mayfair felt too posh to tolerate her presence. She wondered if it was like this for Canadian humans, let alone Canada-resident immortals.

The serpent opened the door a moment later. He was wearing a cream-colored bathrobe, an irate expression, and little else.

“Who— _oh_. Hi.” Crowley blinked at her, adorably startled. She couldn’t blame Aziraphale for getting attached; this dude was nothing like she’d expected, and everything like she’d hoped.

Uriel raised her hands in supplication. “I’m not here to hurt anyone,” she said. “Scout’s honor.”

“I suppose this means you weren’t punished for messing things about?” Crowley asked weakly. “You said you might be. I felt conflicted about that.”

Uriel shrugged. “I don’t think anyone’s heard anything, whether they messed about or not.”

Crowley shuffled out of the way, gesturing her inside.  He was disarmingly flustered.

“Too embarrassed, probably. We haven’t heard anything either. It’s been a week, right? Seven days.”

“And on the seventh day, He rested?” Uriel raised her eyebrows at Crowley’s mussed hair and the crooked knot of his bathrobe. “I’ll be generous with my definition of _resting_.”

Crowley glared half-heartedly. “Save it for Aziraphale. Tea? Coffee? I’ve got an espresso machine, but don’t count on me knowing how to use it. That’s _also_ Aziraphale.”

Uriel winked and crossed the threshold, hands shoved deep in her pockets. Her idea of dressing up a Ramones t-shirt and Levi’s was, admittedly, a neon plaid jacket she’d found thrifting.

“It must be annoying not to be on the ground floor,” she said sympathetically, following him up the stairs to the flat’s actual entrance. “Does somebody nice live below you?”

“Harriet,” Crowley said, seeming pensive. He opened the door when they reached the top of the staircase, holding it for her again. “She got messed about, too, but that’s a good thing.”

“Are you all right?” Uriel asked softly. She couldn’t begin to imagine what he was thinking.

Crowley closed his eyes briefly. “Better. Would you believe I got Aziraphale to sleep?”

Uriel considered touching his shoulder, but she thought about her arrow jutting from it, and then reconsidered.

“After _that_? I’d believe anything.” She paused. “Did you tell him?”

Crowley nodded, pained. “Just after, wine involved. I guess the hysteria made him believe me.”

“Ugh,” Uriel muttered. “For what it’s worth, though—Az would believe you anyway.” She stepped past him, glancing around the modern, white-walled flat. “Are you taking care of each other? Sorry to intrude. I don’t just mean in the Biblical sense.”

“Heh. Funny. You sound like Raphael. Yes, by the way. On both counts,” Crowley replied.

“Raphael has no fucking manners,” Uriel said dismissively, her eyes falling on the white leather sofa. “Whoa, I always wanted one of these. Not in white, but—sweet!”

“You call two jokes about my sex life and Aziraphale’s in as many minutes _manners_?”

Uriel cringed and sat down, realizing she probably wasn’t going to get an explicit invitation.

“Yeah, okay. My bad,” she said sheepishly. She ran her hand over the supple leather, patting it. “I could tell you I don’t bite, but I would understand if you don’t believe me.”

“On the one hand, you shot me a few times. On the other, we’d probably still be stuck if you hadn’t helped me,” Crowley said, weighing his options. “I trust you, I suppose.”

Uriel shifted as far toward the opposite end of the sofa as she could when he decided to sit.

“There’s not a script for this,” she said quietly. “Not anymore. You know that, right? We’re like...up shit creek without a paddle, is probably what I’d say back at home.”

“I think I prefer the uncertainty,” Crowley twisted the tie of his bathrobe around his fingers. “Knowing what’s going to happen is all well and good, but I _like_ moving forward.”

“Az probably isn’t losing a wink over this,” Uriel said bitterly, “unless it’s on your behalf.”

Crowley’s expression softened, and he tilted his head. “You’re not as put-together as you look.”

“Dude,” Uriel laughed, somewhat hysterically, and materialized a bottle of Labatt Blue. She flicked the cap off without a thought and took a swallow. “I deal with dead people who don’t know how to move on. Sometimes even souls that aren’t sure about being born. That shit’s non-stop nightmares. Fakin’ it from here to eternity.”

“Where does the archery come in?” Crowley asked wryly, his tone suggesting it was rhetorical.

“For stuff like what you just saved our butts from,” Uriel said, downing another third of her beer.

Crowley looked away, but his lips twisted in a smile. “Your syntax is appalling, but I’ll take it.”

“D’you know, he’s rubbed off on you?” Uriel asked, realizing too late how awful that sounded. “Double entendre! Fuck! I meant, only Aziraphale knocks my grammar like that.”

Crowley chuckled, snatching the bottle from her hand and taking a sip. He made a face. “Cheap beer, really? How depressed are you?”

“Really _really_ ,” Uriel said, grabbing the bottle back from him. “Rafe loves this stuff.”

“Of course he does.” Crowley shifted closer. “Not to sound like I don’t trust you, but why are you here?”

Uriel closed her eyes, tipped her head back, and dizzily drained what beer was left in the bottle.

“To apologize,” she admitted. “To find out who it is I’ve only heard rumors about for millennia. To see if he wants to call a truce now that he’s, um, shacked up with my co-worker.”

“Sounds almost as if you _like_ him,” said Crowley, deadpan. He snapped his fingers, and Uriel’s bottle was full again. “Seems to me tea or coffee wasn’t going to do the trick.”

Grinning at him over the rim of the bottle, Uriel raised it in a one-sided toast. “So how ’bout it?”

“What in the world did I do to convince you I’m worth that kind of effort?” Crowley ventured.

“You love Aziraphale so much it saved the world. That’s pretty fuckin’ impressive. Even that snot-nosed excuse for an Antichrist could see that it mattered. And he’s still at the age where he thinks girls have cooties and kissing is gross.”

Crowley shrugged, reaching for the bottle with chagrin.

“I used to think kissing was gross. Or that kissing _in theory_ was gross. Look, I’ve never had to analyze this before.”

“Never? You’ve been on Earth six thousand years, and you only started kissing last week?”

“The one time a drunk human laid one on me, I didn’t have time to decide what I thought!”

Uriel glanced at the da Vinci sketch. “Huh. I maybe could have guessed that eventually.”

Crowley flushed, taking a sip from the bottle. “Ugh. This really is terrible. I’m judging Raphael even more harshly now.”

Uriel folded her arms across her chest, wondering how to broach _that_ specific topic.

“This is gonna sound like my bias showing,” she said hesitantly, “but he isn’t what he seems.”

Handing the bottle back to her, Crowley wiped his mouth on his hand. “Oh, don’t tell me.”

Uriel nodded at the coffee table, feeling her cheeks burn. “Nobody understands, believe me.”

“Were you two stationed somewhere together for a long time? Got cozy on accident, eh?”

Even if she wanted to throw the bottle at him more than anything else, Uriel just set it down.

“Yeah, as a matter of fact. Believe me when I say he might not have been my first choice if things hadn’t gone the way they did, but you grow into each other, you know? There was somebody before him, if we’re putting cards on the table. She…” Uriel wasn’t sure she should bring up this particular topic, even in the name of honesty. “Fell. Like you.”

Crowley processed that for half a minute, and then reached for what remained of the Labatt.

“Bad old days,” he murmured, as if reflecting on something that still hit too close to home.

“Didn’t mean to rub salt in a wound,” Uriel sighed, watching him down the last of her beer.

“Holy Water, more like,” Crowley said vaguely, dropping the bottle on the floor. “Forgiven.”

Uriel leaned toward him, trying to read what was behind his glassy expression. “I’m sorry?”

“You’re forgiven,” Crowley said with deliberation, offering his hand. “You would’ve fit right in Down There, which just goes to show you how how arbitrary this whole lark was.”

Uriel reached out, lacing her fingers with his. “I don’t know if there’s an ineffable point to what happened, but if there is, it might be about how we choose where we stand, or some shit.”

“I’m standing right here.” Crowley squeezed back. “If you will, too, that’s all the truce I need.”

“London’s a great place to stand,” Uriel said, winking at him. “I can see the appeal for you.” She shook his hand and released it. “Sure. I chose already, seven or however many days ago.”

Before Crowley could properly respond, footsteps sounded on the smaller set of stairs that Uriel had noticed leading up to a shadowed hallway. She glanced over her shoulder in time to see Aziraphale, dressed but bedraggled-looking, pause with his hand on the railing.

“You might have given us fair warning, dear girl,” said Aziraphale, with a measure of aloofness.

Uriel watched him proceed the rest of the way and step up to the sofa, embracing Crowley from behind. There was an effortlessness in the gesture that made her feel guilty again.

Crowley set his hands on Aziraphale’s forearm, clinging in kind.

“We’ve done the awkward bit, angel,” he said, clearly hesitant to let go. “You don’t have to.”

“Since the world hasn’t ended, and the silence seems to mean an implied amnesty, I thought we might be…” Uriel hesitated. “It sounds silly when I say it out loud, but, uh, _friends_?”

Aziraphale released Crowley and came around the side of the sofa, insinuating himself between Crowley and the arm of it when Crowley scooted closer to Uriel. He sniffed.

“You seem to have forgot one important thing,” he said, “which is that you and I already are.”

Uriel’s chest flooded with relief. You never did know where you were with Aziraphale until he decided to clear the air, and sometimes his air-clearing sounded a lot like pedantry.

“This really is depressing,” she said, grinning until he caved in and grinned, too. “Breakfast?”

  

 

*

 

 

Raphael adjusted the strap of his black silk camisole blouse, flicking ash at the sidewalk as Uriel rambled. He puffed on what was left of his Sobranie, amazed nobody had come out of the hotel and told him to put it out. He brushed a fleck of ash off his dress slacks.

“We faked the whole fight, I am not making this up,” Uriel insisted, snatching the cigarette, taking a jittery drag. “Crowley’s really convincing, can you believe it?”

“While you were busy method-acting, I gave good old Az the run-around,” Raphael replied, primly adjusting his scarf. “If you’re telling the truth, it goes a long way to explaining why I can’t remember how the fight turned out.”

Uriel dropped the cigarette on the sidewalk before Raphael could take it back, vindictively stomping it out with her combat boot. She would have looked right at home in Soho.

“I _am_ telling the truth!” Uriel hissed, drawing the glance of passers-by. “Fuckin’ asshole,” she went on, tugging his scarf out of arrangement. “Where’d you get that?”

“Harrod’s,” Raphael preened, tipping her chin up for a kiss. “Did a spot of shopping while you made your Mayfair charity call.”

“You can’t do the accent for shit, so knock it off,” Uriel groused, dragging him down to her level.

They went at it long enough to risk somebody protesting the display, but Raphael figured nobody would dare given how expensively he was dressed. They’d been staying in Camden for a week, modest but comfortable, and where they were now was a night-and-day contrast.

“We’re standing outside the _actual_ Ritz,” Uriel said, biting Raphael’s lip as he withdrew.

“Would you mind explaining again how they got us into the dining room on such short notice?”

“Crowley says he never needs to make reservations. I’d say he puts miracles to kick-ass use.”

“I’d say it’s less a miracle and more that he just expects things to turn out how he wants.”

“Oh, like you don’t,” Uriel sneered. “Like half of San Francisco isn’t under your spell.”

“Under my spell, or just naturally charmed?” Raphael sassed right back at her. “Rude.”

“You look like you’re doing some kind of high-class business in that get-up,” Uriel said, the turn of her lips betraying amusement. “You feel me? Somebody’s gonna call the cops.”

“Not if our double-date gets here pronto,” Raphael said, re-adjusting his scarf. “They’re late.”

“I got ’em out of bed, jeez,” Uriel said, swatting his arm. “Might as well light up again if you want.”

“Out of _bed_?” Raphael raised one eyebrow, smirking. “We’ll be waiting a while, then.”

“You better not talk like that once they’re here, okay?” Uriel replied. “Crowley gets defensive.”

Raphael considered the challenge. “Shy, is he? What use does demonspawn have for modesty?”

“You’d be surprised what he could teach you about decorum,” Uriel replied, looking too self-satisfied by half. “Also, if you don’t behave, Az will definitely kick your ass.”

“Given the way the other turns you told me about went down, I wouldn’t put my money on him.”

“He’s brave,” Uriel insisted. “He thinks outside the box, which is more than I can say for us.”

Pulling the Sobranies out of his back pocket was exactly what Raphael needed to do to speed things along. Someone grabbed the pack out of his hand from behind, tutting.

“Not that this is a no-smoking area, but they frown on it,” Aziraphale said casually, pocketing Raphael’s contraband. “You haven’t forgotten how to dress for an occasion, I see.”

“You don’t plan on giving those back, do you,” Raphael needled. “You and your guilty habits.”

“We’ll split them, don’t worry,” Crowley volunteered, already sidling up to Uriel. “Shared vice.”

Raphael looked the demon over, disappointed in how tastefully subdued his suit was. What was on his face, though, was another matter. _That_ was grounds for harping.

“Will they let you wear those inside, I wonder?” he asked coolly, offering Crowley his hand.

Unsubtly, Uriel jammed her bony elbow into Raphael’s ribs, wrapping her free arm around Crowley.

“Given the price tag on them, my guess is _yeah_ ,” she snapped.

Crowley adjusted his sunglasses with one hand and shook Raphael’s with the other.

“They always have,” he said a little too cheerfully, clearly nervous as hell.

 _Be nice, you stuck-up ass_. Uriel pleasant expression twitched as she snarled directly into Raphael’s head. _You don’t have the first idea what Crowley’s been through. Keep your bitchy, holier-than-thou comments to yourself, or I swear to fuck you’re sleeping on the couch for the rest of the time we’re here_.

“I rather think we should go inside,” said Aziraphale, offering Crowley his arm. “Dear girl, I’m afraid I must insist you let go,” he said mildly to Uriel. “They know us.”

“Lead the way,” Raphael said dully. He offered Uriel his arm, intentionally mocking the gesture.

“Am I gonna have to up the ante?” Uriel seethed under her breath as they followed Aziraphale and Crowley inside. “Nothing, I mean _nothing_ you like. For a year.”

“I like lots of things, darling,” Raphael said mildly, doing his best to hide how astonished he was at the opulent interior. The corridor to the dining room was lined with glass display windows containing diamond-encrusted jewelry that cost more than his outfit. “How do you mean?”

“I can’t believe you,” Uriel said between clenched teeth, smiling at the host who greeted Aziraphale at the dining room’s entrance. She tugged Raphael to a stop and looked up at him, her grey eyes piercing. “I’ll leave.”

“I’m amazed they haven’t already _asked_ you to leave given the way you’re dressed.”

Crowley turned abruptly as the host began to lead Aziraphale ahead of them. “I’m never clear on whether the dress code applies to us, so would you just...I don’t know, try to blend in?”

Uriel laughed, short and bitter, waving her hand at Raphael. “Blend in? Really? _Him_?”

Unable to school his features into anything other than a pinched look of disdain, Crowley turned his back on them and dashed to catch up. Uriel grabbed Raphael’s arm and hung on it.

“This ain’t your turf, bucko,” she said with vicious glee, dragging him forward. “Suck it up.”

Apprehension didn’t come naturally to Raphael, but he had a hunch he was about to learn what it felt like. The host seated them at a table next to the windows, which earned an approving hum from Aziraphale and distraction from Crowley. He was studying the greenery-lined patio.

Raphael’s gaze landed on Crowley. The demon’s face was turned in profile, the sharpness of his nose and cheekbones accentuated by the light of the room. In this moment of serenity—lips parted slightly, head turned to reveal one glittering gold eye behind the sunglasses—Raphael started to see what Uriel meant about him. He really was gentle-looking, and pretty to boot.

“They aren’t hard enough on the clematis,” Crowley said conversationally. “No discipline.”

Raphael didn’t have a response for that, so he just grimaced and took his seat next to Uriel.

“Thank you, Rashid,” Aziraphale said pleasantly to the host. “Can they spare you to wait our table today? We’d be much obliged. Guests from North America, you see.”

“I will ask the manager, of course,” Rashid replied smoothly. “Some drinks to start the table?”

“No matter what _he_ says,” Crowley cut in, inclining his head at Aziraphale, “it’s mimosas all around. He’d order Bordeaux at all hours if you let him.”

“Very good,” Rashid said, striding away in his impeccable uniform and worn, polished shoes.

The entire scene was so disgustingly bucolic that Raphael couldn’t help clearing his throat.

“Uriel tells me the world’s indebted to you,” he said to the demon, with restrained sarcasm.

Rashid came back with a tray of fizzy, bright-orange champagne flutes. He served Crowley and Aziraphale first, and then handed the remaining two drinks to Raphael and Uriel.  Aziraphale thanked him.

“What do you expect me to do?” Crowley said as soon as Rashid was gone. “Congratulate myself?” Much to Raphael’s shock, and to Uriel’s tense intake of breath, he slid his sunglasses down the bridge of his nose. “Do I _look_ like I’m proud of what I did?”

“No, my dear,” Aziraphale said, taking Crowley’s tense hand no sooner than the demon had gripped the edge of the table, “but you should be.”

“What I think she’s not telling you,” Crowley said, pointing at Uriel, “is how much I owe her.”

Raphael lowered his eyes, studying Uriel askance. Her napkin, previously spread neatly across her lap, was twisted in her bloodless fingers. He set one hand on her wrist, inexplicably trembling. What he’d shut out with all his strength, he couldn’t deny any longer.

Uriel laughed like she had earlier, the sound a shard stuck in her throat. “How’s it feel to know?”

“Know what?” Raphael asked softly, uncurling her stiff fingers from the napkin.  So deft in their craft, so swift with her bow, so worthy of awe.

“The line between me and him is nothing,” Uriel choked. “Nothing but dumb goddamn luck.” She trembled where she sat, the spasmodic clutch and release of her fingers on Raphael’s an anguished shock. “If you hadn’t taken my hand—back _then_ —I’d be gone.”

Raphael laced their fingers reverently, palm upturned to press against hers. He’d never forget.

“Then you should’ve dragged me with you, darling,” he whispered, “never mind who had your heart at the time.” _Didn’t you know I’d fallen already, always for you?_

 _Asshole_ , Uriel sent back, but there was joy beneath her tears. “I’m making up for it.”

“Aren’t we all,” Aziraphale sighed, unabashedly relieved as he raised his glass. “A toast?”

Crowley finally blinked, shoving his sunglasses back in place, and then grabbed his glass.

“To there not being a next time?” he suggested as brightly as he could, a peace offering.

Raphael lifted his glass in turn, swallowing hard. “To any and all adventures being as mundane and disgustingly domestic as possible.”

“I, for one,” said Aziraphale, clinking his glass against Crowley’s before reaching across the table to hit Uriel’s, “shall drink to that.”

Crowley tilted his glass just in time, meeting the rim of Raphael’s halfway. “Adventures?”

“I was told there’s some kind of truce in the works,” Raphael said. “Is there room for one more?”

“There’s room for two more, as it happens,” Crowley promised, “but no back-seat driving.”

Raphael drew an unexpectedly shaky breath and winked at Crowley. “I’ll do my best.”


End file.
